


predatory intent

by WolffyLuna



Series: Finrod's werewolf kink [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BDSM, Biting, M/M, Masochism, Predator/Prey, Sadism, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 17:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18036008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: “Are you satisfied? Generally?”Finrod arched an eyebrow, though his expression was blocked by the pillow he had buried his face in. “Why wouldn’t I be?”“It would be plausible that you were, but--” he poked Finrod in the side. “I am intrigued by your reactions, and I wonder if there are other ones, or other ways to induce them. Out of mere curiosity, of course.”He buried his face even more, relaxing into it. “There’s nothing sensible.”“Who said anything about sensible?”Curufin/Finrod werewolf roleplay





	predatory intent

 

Afterglows would be so much nicer if they weren’t so _sweaty_. It seemed like a poor design decision to Finrod. Especially considering there was a good chance you were right next to another warm, sweaty body, and were just going to end up even sweatier. …not that he was going to move. Too tired, too floppy, too much enjoying the warmth Curufin next to him.

Curufin half sat up, and looked at him with a hawk-like expression: an intense stare with a lot of cocking of the head. “Are you satisfied? Generally?”

Finrod arched an eyebrow, though his expression was blocked by the pillow he had buried his face in. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It would be plausible that you were, but--” he poked Finrod in the side. “I am intrigued by your reactions, and I wonder if there are other ones, or other ways to induce them. Out of mere curiosity, of course.” (And Finrod could hear the shit-eating grin that went with that last sentence.)

He buried his face even more, relaxing into it. “There’s nothing sensible.”

“Who said anything about sensible?”

…and he shouldn’t have said anything. Because Curufin would want to know, would want an explanation—and how do you explain _that_? How do you explain that you found the concept of being mauled—by something that killed you in a previous incarnation, no less—deeply erotic? He could half hold his reasons in his brain (the consumption, the destruction, the helplessness, the objectification, the swirling mass of all those and others) but explaining them in words was another matter entirely.

And it was embarrassing. Whether it ‘should’ be or not—well, it was, regardless of how he felt about it. He had those reactions, in spite of his good sense, in spite of himself. (And he had a niggling worry that one of the components of the appeal was _shame_ , shame at his imagined helplessness and shame at his own desire, and he refused to find being ashamed about his shame arousing. That was too recursive!) “It’s not reasonable.”

“I never said anything about reasonable either! Really, there’s no point dragging this out, you know I’m like a hound with a bone with secrets at the best of times.”

Finrod huffed a laugh. “That’s oddly appropriate.”

Curufin rested his chin on his hand. “Now you have me very intrigued.”

‘Trust’ was not really a word one could apply to how he felt about Curufin, but it was close enough. He trusted that it would be easier to say than to get Curufin to shut up about it. He trusted that Curufin would only use this secret for a very specific (and likely enjoyable) kind of evil. And there really was no other way to stop Curufin from constantly prodding him about it. “Werewolves.” …that really needed more explanation to go with it. “Not actual ones, more the… idea of them. …the idea of being, uh, consumed. Mauled.”

“Well, that is an intriguing idea.” He ran a finger over the muscles of Finrod’s shoulder blades. “I do rather like having you at my mercy.”

Finrod made a high pitched squeak. His hands came up to his face—and he stopped them. Put them back towards his sides. No reason to hide in shame. He’d said what he’d said, and Curufin had responded as he had, what was the point of shame? (Except that it made Curufin’s actions paradoxically more arousing, that he was playing into something wrong, that he was taking advantage of some weakness in Finrod’s character.) “There’s, uh, more noises like that available.”

“Strange noises are very appealing.” Curufin flopped beside him. “At a later date, of course. I can have you at my mercy whenever is most convenient for both of us,” he said, nuzzling his face into the crook of Finrod’s neck.

 

***

 

Finrod lay naked on his stomach, tense. Waiting. _Anticipating_.

Curufin stalked around the room, footfalls soft but audible, pacing from side to side like he was evaluating the best angle of attack. It wasn’t exactly like a werewolf. Even with his face buried in pillows so his sight didn’t betray the fantasy, Curufin couldn’t get the soundscape right, not having enough feet and all. But he got close. He got the feeling of it, the steady, inevitable, predatory intent behind it.

It ran a shiver up Finrod’s spine.

Curufin leaped on him—Finrod swore he sounded further away, but then with no warning he was on top of him. Finrod tried to struggle, but he couldn’t see what was happening, couldn’t work out where Curufin was other than that the mass of him was pressing him down—after a brief tangle of limbs, Curufin pinned him by his hips, straddling them, with a hand between his shoulder blades pinning him further. His cock pressed into the small of his back.

Even constricted as he was ( _because_ of how constricted he was, how trapped he was, how helpless he was) his cock was hard and aching.

Curufin kissed along the shell of his ear, down his jaw and neck, till the place where his shoulder met his neck. The kisses were light and ticklish, contrasting the pinning. Another trick to build up anticipation. Something soft and gentle that one knew was going to become hard and rough, a prelude made agonising by the fact that one didn’t know when the circumstances would change.

Finrod knew it was a trick. Knew the manipulation behind it.

That didn’t stop it from working. Didn’t stop his shoulders from tensing underneath Curufin’s hands, didn’t stop his teeth clacking together as his jaw clenched, as he waited interminable seconds for something to change—

Curufin bit down on his trapezius. Hard. Not enough to break skin, Curufin’s force was not that great and his canines not that sharp, but enough to _bruise_. Enough to break all the little blood vessels beneath the skin, bleed in a way that was safe and controlled and just close enough.

He shrieked, high pitched and closed-mouthed.

The pressure increased infinitesimally, just enough that Finrod could imagine the teeth grinding up against each other, enough to change the key of the choked off scream. (He was glad that he’d mentioned strange noises were a good thing. He didn’t want Curufin to pause for him to explain. (He didn’t want it to stop.) )  The pain built and built as Curufin held the bite, as Finrod’s hands clenched and he questioned whether he could withstand it (he wanted to, he wanted just one more second of it—)

Curufin released the bite, and it was almost worse now with no pressure on it. Saliva cooled on his skin, making the bruise tighten and almost sting, as his skin struggled to rise up and fill the divots left by his teeth.

Curufin picked his hand up from Finrod’s shoulder blades, and paused.

Finrod couldn’t tell what he was thinking, just that he was, that he was planning something—

Curufin threaded his fingers through Finrod’s hair, down to the scalp, and _gripped_.

He was about as immobilised as he was before, maybe even less so now that Curufin couldn’t bring his full weight to bear—but he felt more pinned. More controlled, now that he couldn’t move his own head.

Curufin dragged his head up, and he had no choice to follow, as Curufin leaned down to speak into his ear. He spoke quietly, but as close as he was it sounded almost like shouting, the pressure of the sound and breath banging against his ear drum. “Mine. Mine to do whatever I want too.”

It wasn’t like the werewolves. They’d never spoken, neither in real life nor in fantasy.

It was better than them.

He bit the underside of Finrod’s neck—gently, no pressure and barely any tooth.

Finrod swallowed hard under Curufin’s mouth. It was barely any contact, but if he _bit down_ —He trusted Curufin, maybe more than he should. But to feel his teeth only a thin layer of skin and muscle away from his jugular, after what he’d just done to his shoulder? It was threatening.

Terrifying.

Curufin rocked against Finrod’s hips, rhythmic and strong, and Finrod half wanted to arch up against it, but the half of him that thought it would be against the spirit of the thing won out.

Curufin moved his mouth up, and bit down on the shell of Finrod’s ear—harder than on his throat, softer than on his shoulder—but Finrod could feel the teeth crunch against each other with only his cartilage separating them, could feel the incisors meet.

Another high pitched squeak, muffled by his lips.

Curufin ran a finger along them, parting them. “You’re being rather quiet. So unfortunate. Your screams are rather delightful.” He ground harder against him, pushing him against the bed.

The friction was something, but it wasn’t enough—but the words. The words were rather a lot to deal with. Heat pooled and swirled in his groin, and this shouldn’t have been happening, but it was and it was _magical_.

He let go of Finrod’s hair, and he collapsed against the pillow with a soft _thud_. 

He ran a hand firmly down Finrod’s back (dragging the skin over the bruise, making it sing with pain—)  “Such a pretty canvas. Prettier once it’s marred, of course.”

He leaned down, and bit hi, again and again. He never held each bit as long as the one on his shoulder, but still long enough to make deep bruises. The bites ranged all over—from rib to wrist to opposite wrist—but always landing somewhere sensitive, somewhere half- to fully- erogenous.

Finrod cursed and celebrated how well Curufin knew him. Cursed and celebrated what he had told him and shown him, how he let him know how to best take advantage now, to completely control and undo and consume him.

His screams were still muffled, as if by letting his mouth fully open he’d give up the last of his control, and he wanted that as much as he feared that, and fear barely won out.

Curufin panted, as his hips moved faster and harder, as precum leaked out and slicked in between Finrod’s arse cheeks. “Your shaking feels rather good, you know that?”

And he didn’t until, even though he should have expected it. Of course the physical manifestations of his pain would feel good—but in some way it heightened the shame. Like he was a tool that could be used, but worse, a tool that enjoyed its use, as painful as it was.

Curufin grabbed his wrist (the bitten one, the one with the circular bruise blooming over it) and shoved it under his own hips.

It was probably an invitation to stroke himself, even though he questioned _how exactly_ Curufin thought he was going to do that? Though maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was meant as a temptation, and if he actually tried he would be punished—and Valar that wasn’t meant to be an arousing thought. He tried, anyway, because either it was intended, or if it wasn’t he would be punished, and some part of him wanted to feel that. He couldn’t stroke himself, he was too crushed to actually move his hand, could barely get it around and under his cock—But as Curufin pushed him around, grinding against him and biting him and digging his fingers into the bruises, he pushed his hips around his hand, and that was enough. He was hard and horny enough that it was _enough_.

It wasn’t quite a scream or a moan, but it was definitely open mouthed.

“Now, isn’t that good?”

Finrod wasn’t sure whether that comment was about the sound, or the way his hips twitched, but either way Curufin’s appreciation went straight to his cock.

The grinding sped up, and Finrod recognised the noises that Curufin was making, he knew what they meant, he was close—

Curufin bit down on his shoulder, right over the bite, digging in, pain blooming white hot— Finrod screamed, open mouthed, as Curufin’s seed splattered over his back.

He expected him to stop, to break character, because that would be _in character_ , to use him and just leave once he was finished. But he didn’t. He pushed and shoved at Finrod’s bruises, curling his fingers until his nails dug in, and the pain was delicious and the pleasure built and built until Finrod reached his climax, spilling over himself.

Curufin broke character then. Finrod could feel it, the way he shifted his weight, the way the stare at the back of his neck grew less wild and became calm evaluation. He could hear the smile in his voice when he asked “Was that satisfactory?”

Words were hard. These feelings didn’t come from words. They came from somewhere deeper, more embodied, in a way that made them hard to put into the shape. The pleasure in control and shame, and feeling of control from giving up on it, the deep feeling of safety of having your most vulnerable parts witnessed and not run away from—“Yes,” he said, muffled by the pillow.

 

 


End file.
